


Dressing Down

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [13]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Belting, Book: Chrzest ognia | Baptism of Fire, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: He decided to give Dandelion a good dressing down at the next camp for his untrammeled chatter. Knowing the poet, he couldn’t count on any results. - Baptism of Fire
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (Books) [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 7
Kudos: 152





	Dressing Down

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not familiar with the books, let me give a bit of context: Geralt and Dandelion are supposed to be on a secret mission to save Ciri, but Dandelion tells pretty much everyone they meet what they're doing. Geralt is not amused (which is why I let him go a little further than he usually would in terms of punishing Dandelion).

No sooner had they made camp, Dandelion making himself at home by the fire, lute in hand, preparing to begin singing, then Geralt grabbed the poet by the back of his shirt, hauled him to his feet, and drug him from the group.

Geralt tried not to look at their companions, but he suspected that he saw Milva pass a coin to Cahir, as though they’d been betting on how long it would take for his paitence with the poet to finally run out.

Dandelion whined and whimpered in wordless protest as Geralt pulled him through the woods, away from the camp, moving until he could no longer hear the sounds coming from camp. Then he released the poet, giving him a slight shove.

“Geralt!” he whined, adjusting his hat which had been knocked askew in their march. “What was that for?”

The Witcher folded his arms over his chest, waiting to see if Dandelion would make the connection for himself or not. As intelligent as the poet was - in terms of scholarly studies, that was - he was somewhat helpless at figuring out things involving common sense.

“I haven’t done anything!” continued the poet, moving as though he intended to march himself back to their camp and the warm fire that awaited.

Geralt caught his arm before he could escape. “You can’t think of a single thing, Dandelion?” he asked. The bard shook his head. “There’s nothing that I’ve told - no, begged - you not to do a half a dozen times?”

“No.”

Geralt shook his head. Dandelion reeked of lies, which only served to aggravate the Witcher further. “Lying to me won’t help,” he said. “Now strip.”

“Geralt, I-”

“Be quiet Dandelion. I waited for your head wound to heal, but I’ve had enough of your insolence.” Again he gestured to the bard’s coat, his voice firm as he said, “Remove your clothes or I will.”

The bard pouted, but finally did as he was told. He still seemed incensed, as though he couldn’t fathom why Geralt was so upset with him.

“Geralt, listen,” said the poet as he fiddled with the buttons on his jacket, clearly thinking he could barter his way out of the punishment. The Witcher let him chatter, as long as he was undressing as he had been told. “I don’t see why this is so horrible a thing, it’s helped us on multiple occasions, hasn’t it? I’ve brought in Cahir and Milva and Regis-”

“And what if one of them had been a spy for Nilfgard?” he asked sharply. “Your luck won’t hold out, poet, and one of these days, you’re going to say something to the wrong person, and it won’t be you who suffers for it.”

“How do you figure that?” he snapped, struggling to step out of his boots. “Because I’m the one getting his arse whipped, judging by your actions.”

“What if word reaches Nilfgard that they don’t have the real Ciri?”

Dandelion finally fell silent, removing the rest of his clothes without a word and hanging them over a tree branch carefully.

Geralt dug through his own pockets as Dandelion continued to glower at him, looking far too indignant for someone who was naked and about to be whipped. Finally he located what he wanted, an old leather glove - though still clean enough - that was missing the mate. “Bite down on this,” he said, passing it to Dandelion. “Unless you want the rest of our companions hearing you.”

The poet took it with a scowl, turning his back to Geralt pointedly, stuffing the glove into his mouth, and lacing his fingers behind his neck. Taking his time, Geralt removed his belt, trying to stop himself from being too angry. It wasn’t just because of Dandelion’s head wound that he’d waited to give the poet a whipping, but because he was still angry and would never forgive himself if he pushed too hard.

But he couldn’t help but be upset with his friend, because Dandelion still, clearly, had no idea how much trouble he was capable of causing with his chatter. The Witcher had forgiven him time and time again, and yet Dandelion hadn’t bothered to change his actions at all.

Finally, when Dandelion had started to twitch as though he was considering escaping, Geralt struck the belt over his ass. Even muffled by the glove, his cry of pain sent a pang of guilt through the Witcher.

He didn’t allow himself to stop, however, not while he was still thinking about how much danger Dandelion was putting them in without even thinking about it.

It was clear he was truly hurting the bard, and each strike, each muffled whimper, brought another pang of guilt through Geralt’s chest. But he didn’t allow himself to stop. Not when it was Ciri’s life in danger. Not until Dandelion understood what he’d done.

Suddenly the troubadour lost his footing. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees, his face pressing into the mossy ground, shoulders shaking from the effort not to drop the gag and scream.

It should be over, he’d clearly had enough. But Geralt stepped after him, lashing his belt across the cleft of Dandelion’s ass, where it met his thigh. When he’d been standing, it had been impossible to strike him there, and the skin was still unblemished.

But after two quick strikes to the pale skin, he stopped, dropping to the forest floor beside Dandelion, rubbing his hand against the poet’s shaking back. With no small amount of effort he pried open Dandelion’s mouth, pulling out the spit-soaked glove and letting him gasp and suck in air with an open mouth.

“Easy Dandelion,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around the sobbing troubadour, pulling him into his arms. Dandelion said nothing, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder and moaning in pain. Guilt crushed Geralt’s stomach and he squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in Dandelion’s soft curls.

For a long while they sat in silence, the poet sobbing into Geralt’s shoulder as the Witcher stroked his back. Eventually, Dandelion found his voice again, whining, “That _hurt_ , Geralt.”

He’d never complained about a whipping before, not in such a frightened way. He’d always trusted Geralt to give him what he deserved. “Dandelion,” he murmured, curling ringlets around his finger, “you put Ciri in danger.”

“You put me in danger!” The poet looked up at him with tearstained and accusatory eyes. “I can’t ride!” he whined, then buried his face in Geralt’s shoulder once again. “Don’t leave me,” he whimpered.

“I’m not going to leave you, you fucking idiot.” He rubbed Dandelion’s back, cradling his wounded friend in his arms. “I’ll even give you something for the pain, come morning, if you swear to keep your mouth shut.”

“I won’t say a word!” Dandelion sniffled, his fingers wrapping around the folds of Geralt’s shirt. “Not to anyone about anything!”

The Witcher chuckled. “I very much doubt that, Dandelion,” he murmured.

Dandelion managed a soft snort, although it was wet sounding from his tears. Geralt continued to rub his back, doing what he could to offer comfort to his frightened friend.

Guilt still churned uncomfortably in his stomach, particularly at Dandelion’s reminder that they were traveling by horseback, but each time it raised its head he reminded himself that it was Ciri who was in danger and Dandelion was an adult who truly ought to know better.

They sat on the ground for some time, until the bard had seemingly recovered his facilities (as evidenced by his sudden demand for food). Geralt snorted at the request, patting his back, and then helped him to stand. He trembled a bit when he tried to get his feet back under him, but he did well enough, managing to limp to his clothes and struggle back into them.

He whimpered when the fabric snagged on the red welts on his skin, but didn’t complain anymore, possibly because Geralt gave him a pat on his shoulder.

There was no way that the others were unaware of what had transpired in the woods between the Witcher and the Poet. Not to mention, Dandelion was limping when they returned, and his eyes were still rimmed with redness.

But thankfully none of them mentioned the matter, not even Milva, who almost looked entertained by Dandelion’s irritated expression when he sat down and pulled his lute into his lap with a wince.


End file.
